Go slow, hol’ hard, chillun!
Dar’s a happy lan’ whar de good shall go,
Go slow, hol’ hard, chillun!”
The clear soprano voice rolled out the words and notes with the abandon of his Ethiopian prototype, and Elsie turned and laid an arm around the lad’s neck as she exclaimed: “Antoine Minaud! Where in the world did you find that song?”
“In here,” said Antoine, significantly tapping his temple.
“An improvisator!” cried Elsie ecstatically. “Herbert, we’re in the presence of genius.”
“So I perceive. Where did you discover the faculty, Antoine?”
“At the hospital.”
“Can you improvise instantly?”
“Give me a theme and see.”